


Why so serious

by tveckling



Series: Smut one-shots [11]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: (Leon kills Mendez), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Canonically smartass Leon, Character Death, Graphic Description, In which Leon S. Kennedy gets utterly ruined, Las Plagas, M/M, Mutation, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 18:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19279081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: A moment's distraction proves Leon's undoing, and the fight in the firey barn takes a turn he never would have expected.





	Why so serious

The fire rages all around them, sucking the oxygen from the air, and Leon can feel the sweat gather on his skin. He feels it gather into drops that run underneath his clothes, under his hair, along his face. It's a good thing he wears gloves, no matter how clammy his palms feel, because without them he surely wouldn't be able to keep a steady grip of his gun.

And it's hard enough already to do that without sweat getting in the way. His body aches, the muscles in his legs especially, makes him feel like he's been running around the damn barn for hours. It's wrong, of course, he knows that. At most it's been a few minutes, he _knows_ that—long, horrible, drawn-out minutes spent shooting, then running, avoiding getting too close to the fire, all the while dodging those creepy-ass pincers. There's no time for him to pause and think, no time to center himself and take stock off his inventory. He's forced to keep moving, distracted, his guard up the whole time. As it is he doesn't know how much ammo he has left; he only knows it can't be much.

The hard wood of the ladder presses against his back as he aims and fires away at the damn centipede bastard—if there's one thing he's learned to appreciate it's the value of keeping his back protected—but it doesn't take many shots before the mutated chief does his weird jump again, landing much, much closer than Leon finds even remotely comfortable. And he sees one of the pincers move, sees the attack coming, so it's not too much of a hardship to dodge the sharp limb. But he's too focused on the attack, doesn't remember to think about his surroundings. He doesn't hear the wood breaking until it's too late, doesn't move away in time to avoid the top half of the ladder, and a grunt escapes him as he stumbles forward, momentarily stunned.

A moment is all that's needed for the tide to turn.

The yell's ripped from his throat as a sharp claw shoots through his thigh, and for yet another moment there's nothing but _pain_. Then he grits his teeth, raises his gun, and fires off several shots in quick succession, not even needing any time to aim at the still human face bearing down on at. It's close— _too close_ —but the closeness removes any need to aim. If he focuses on the anger, on his goal, then he can keep the pain away from his mind, push it to the background. If only the _bastard_ would _die already_ , that'd be great.

There seems to be a pattern of events going the exact opposite if what he wishes for. The man-monster only snarls as the bullets hit him, and before Leon can react—if he even could, what with the _goddamn pincer_ stuck in his leg—the second claw pierces his shoulder. Leon can't keep the gun from falling from his limp fingers, barely even notices it. And perhaps it's because the scream seems stuck in his throat, but he manages to stay silent when the pincer pulls out of his leg—only to then fail at keeping it back when the pincer instead pierces his other shoulder instead. The scream's cut short, however, whether to his relief or dismay, as the pain of being lifted into the air takes all breath from him. It takes all willpower he has to even remember _how_ to drag air back into his jerking body.

Leon would never claim that it makes him happy to realize he's up high enough that he finds himself almost face to face with the big cheese himself. Every movement hurts, and he can barely make his fingers move. This feeling of helplessness is something he hasn't felt in a long time, and it's _infuriating_ to experience it here and now in some backwaters village. The glare he sends does nothing to change the scornful look the village chief wears.

"How pitiful. You were more formidable than expected, but that only means I have to make sure to really put you down. Lord Saddler might have wished for you to become one of his followers, but the egg has taken too long to hatch, so I, Bitores Mendez, Lord Saddler's faithful servant, will end you here, once and for all. You should never have come here, outsider."

There's no chance for Leon to make a retort—as if he'd actually had the breath to do so—before the chief raises a hand sharp, elongated nails rake across his chest, once, twice. The sharp sting makes him gasp, try fruitlessly to somehow move away from the pain, and it's not before he looks down that he actually realizes that it wasn't just his skin that was cut. A small corner of his mind mutters in annoyance at the sight of the ruined remains of his shirt—first they stole his jacket, now they destroy his shirt?—but the rest is busy taking in the cuts and blood, working to tell what state his body's blood supply is getting to. Not very good, is his assessment.

The thoughts fly out of his head when the man-monster tears apart his _pants_ —and that's when dismay turns into alarm turns into anger turns into _panic_. Without thinking, without really meaning to, he starts struggling, pushing past the pain shooting through his body as though it doesn't exist, snarling as he kicks at every part of the monster he can reach.

"Get your creepy-ass talons away from me, or I'll rip them off and feed them to you!"

The threat doesn't faze Mendez one bit, of course. Leon can't move his arms well, can barely move at all, can definitely not reach for any of his weapons now scattered on the ground. All he can do is hang there, fruitlessly kicking. Helpless. The hatred is thick in his throat—covering up the bile rising, and the scream just barely contained—as he watches how the man intent on destroying him carefully opens his pants and pulls out his cock. Well, more carefully than how he's been handling Leon; the bastard must know how bad those nails of his hurt. And seeing the normal, all too human appendage almost makes Leon laugh.

"Guess not every part of you grew, huh?" he drawls, unable to and not even trying to hold the taunt back. It helps choke down the panic that rises as he finds he can't look away. The chief's cock is half-erect, and growing harder as Leon stares.

"You can't hide your fear with senseless remarks, outsider, and you can't use them to anger me. You're _nothing_ , and I'll make you see how futile your attempt to defy Lord Saddler is."

"It sure doesn't look like your little friend here thinks I'm 'nothing,' " Leon grits out with forced nonchalance, but Mendez stays silent, apparently having said all that he meant to say.

When the hands grab for him Leon kicks, biting back the whimpers as his shoulders scream in pain, tries to avoid being caught. But there's no escape, not when he's already _been_ caught, and he growls in frustration as his legs are forced wide open. Finally, as the bony body gets closer, he manages to tear his eyes away, and looks up, looks at anything else, stares with aching eyes at the fire still burning strong. He doesn't see, _refuses_ to see the still fully human—all too human, he thinks with distaste—lower body move into the space between his legs, pressing up against too sensitive skin. But no matter how hard he denies it there's no escaping the feel of the half-hard cock sliding against his flesh.

Somehow, he doesn't know how, he manages to keep the scream locked behind his teeth as the goddamn pincers move him around and those nails cut open the skin at his back as Mendez lets go of his legs to grab his ass. _Spreading him open_. He feels the cock move against him, feels it catch on his rim, and he laughs because if he didn't he doesn't know what he'd do.

"All that big righteous talk about 'Lord Saddler' this and that, but, really, you ju-"

 _He feels it push_ _in_ , and all sound breaks. There's no air in his lungs, no voice in his throat, no words in his mind, no bravado to mask his panic with. Only pain, as hands hold him tighter with inhuman strength and he's filled in one merciless thrust.

It doesn't take long for the cock inside of him to grow fully erect as the man-monster fucks Leon hard, and if he had even half a mind Leon would laugh about how long it must've been for the, oh, so serious chief for him to enjoy himself so fully.

But he can't. Much less laughing, Leon can barely breathe, only moaning in pain as his body's jolted nonstop, as he's torn open—in so many ways and places, he thinks, and though he can't laugh he feels a grin slide onto his face. It disappears quickly again as a particularly hard thrust makes him bite into his cheek, and he doesn't know what to feel about the taste of blood filling his mouth becoming all too familiar.

One of the claws piercing him twists, and a keening noise escapes his throat as he jerks, and the thought of Ashley flies into his head, of her hiding somewhere outside the barn. She's not what he'd been expecting, to say the least; he'd thought he'd have to deal with some pampered, sheltered brat. But though she might be those things she's also proven to be far more resilient than he'd expected, and far from a willful brat who refuses to follow his orders. He likes her. All he can hope is for her to remain hidden, and that wherever her hiding place is it's far enough away that she doesn't see or hear what's happening to him.

Another jolt brings a choked noise to his lips. He's sweating, can still feel drops run down his skin, but it makes him taste bile as he considers the new source of work out he's getting. Mendez' still human face bears down on him, seemingly keeping watch over every reaction he lets slip, and Leon wishes he could focus enough to spit in monster's face. As it is he can barely keep himself from focusing on the cock pounding into him, over and over, with such force it seems he can feel it in his throat. He's grateful for the fire, the flames' roaring covering up most of the sounds around him. More than anything he doesn't want to hear how the human hips hits his sweaty ass, or the squishing sounds as the pincers keep twisting where they're embedded in his body.

The hands on his ass tightens, and Leon feels his strength give out as the chief's cock drives into him, harder and faster than before. He lets his head hang, doesn't have the strength to keep it up—and, besides, maybe that way Mendez won't be able to see his expressions as well. Hah, take _that_ , you piece of shit.

It doesn't come as a surprise when the man-monster comes soon after, after only a short time that lasted all too long, and Leon barely has time to feel nausea churn at the sense of being filled with come before the pincers rip out of his flesh and he's unceremoniously dropped to the ground. This time he doesn't even try to hold back the grunt; he only thanks whoever's listening that it didn't turn into a scream, because he knows he wouldn't have been able to stop it.

Above him Mendez looms, but it takes only a quick glance to see that he's distracted—shaking his head, talking to himself in what sounds like agitated Spanish—and even with his mind a cocoon of pain, even with his body torn open and every movement he makes bringing him more torment than he'd ever imagined, Leon sees his chance. And he can't not take it. So he grits his teeth and focuses and looks around at the gear lying scattered all around him. And, there, just a little bit away, next to one of the chief's feet, Leon spots a familiar shape. It takes most of his remaining strength, but with a quick movement—biting back the agony for just these few seconds so he can move with his usual speed—he reaches out and grabs it.

Just in time, it seems, as he feels a human hand—sans elongated nails, and who'd known the guy could just pull them right back in, _bastard_ —grab his throat and lift him back up in the air. And, really, what is it with these mutated freaks and choking him? It really feels like that's happened too many times, even by his own messed up standards of bad shit happening. Sometimes it feels like someone's put a target on his back reading 'do your worst.'

There's nothing to do about it, of course. Not now. So Leon gathers himself and grins at the furious face glaring at him. "Sure hope this experience was more satisfying for you than for me, because I'd like my money back."

Mendez snarls at him and opens his mouth to say something, and that's when Leon acts, pushing the grenade into the man-monster's wide open mouth. He was prepared for the worst, prepared to have to shield his head from the blast with only his arms—but some ray of luck must be shining on him, because Mendez screeches and lets go of him, and he falls to the floor where he quickly rolls away as Mendez stumbles backwards.

Leon curls up, covering his head, and, then, _a loud boom_ , and pieces of a body falling everywhere. Slowly Leon lets himself start breathing again, raising his head to sneer at Mendez' lower body—the largest piece of him still remaining.

"On second thought, you can keep the money."

It's agony to drag himself over to the nearest vial of mixed herbs, but the sigh of relief as the pain goes away comes from the very bottom of his heart. With that done, with the pain abated and his wounds healed, he can finally think about his situation—or, not think, but plan ahead. He can't think, doesn't want to. Maybe later, when his mission is over, when he's seen Ashley safe in her father's arms again, then maybe he'll let himself think about it. But for now he has neither the time nor the energy to think about anything other than how to get Ashley home safe.

He stands up on shaky legs and looks down at himself with tight lips. First off, he needs to get new clothes. Mendez' pants aren't nearly the right size, but with a belt to fasten them they're wearable. And it's not like he has better choice available, what with only torn pieces remaining of his own clothes.

Carefully, he avoids thinking about how he feels, about the pants he stole, about anything and everything, as he moves around collecting all his scattered weapons and supplies. He was uncharacteristically lucky with the pants, it seems, because he finds nothing even remotely useable as a shirt, he eventually has to concede with a sigh. Hopefully the merchant has some clothes to sell, nevermind the cost, because he'd _really_ prefer not to have to fight infected villagers and more with his damn nipples showing.


End file.
